


The Theory of Relativity Is Pretty Rubbish Anyway

by qlstrange



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk John, Drunk Sex (implied), Drunk Sherlock, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qlstrange/pseuds/qlstrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock get plastered. The Internet looks on in amusement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Theory of Relativity Is Pretty Rubbish Anyway

**Author's Note:**

> Story contains gratuitous alcohol use and drunken blogging.

“I don’t drink,” Sherlock says and he looks so holier-than-thou that John thinks he might crap a communion cracker.

“No, but you do load yourself up with nicotine patches.”

“That’s different.  Nicotine is a stimulant; alcohol is a depressant.”

“You smell like hobo piss,” John says, because both of them spent a disproportionately large part of their days wading through the dumpsters in the West End.  All the showering in the world could not erase the scent of it.  Sherlock imagines John’s head catching on fire.  “Just take the bloody beer.”

“I _don’t drink_.”

“Shut up,” John says.

They glare at each other for a while.  Sherlock takes the beer.  John grins and pulls his phone out of his pocket.  Mobile Web, Blogger, New Entry.

_Long day, long case.  Most of it is classified, but suffice to say that we both now smell like a combination of excrement and failure._

_Knocking a few back with Sherlock._

_  
_

o :: o :: o

 

As it turns out, Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, the preeminent logical mind of his time, the sociopath with an IQ of 152, is a lightweight.

“No.  _No_.  John, pay attention.”

“Bugger all, Sherlock, I’m not going to get it.”

“It’s _simple_.  It’s _elementary_.  Just pay attention.”

For the past ten minutes Sherlock has been trying to explain—

“What’s it, though?” John asks because he’s forgotten what it was they were talking about.  John’s not a lightweight; he’s just forgetful when he’s tipsy.  “The hungry stimulation.”

Sherlock laughs so hard that he falls off the sofa.  Watching him makes John start to laugh too.  He’s never seen Sherlock laughing so hard.

“The poverty of the stimulus,” Sherlock wheezes.  “The bloody buggering hell is a hungry stimulation?”

“The bloody buggering hell is the poverty of the stimulus?”

Sherlock starts laughing again and so does John.  It’s taking Sherlock longer to stop this time and as he’s wheezing on the floor John pulls out his mobile again.

_Sherlock is into linguistics, who knew?  He apparently finds it practical.  Some American sod talked about hungry stimulus and language and fuck all.  Haven’t got a damned clue what he’s talking about as usual.  Sherlock is a damn funny drunk.  Further bulletins as events warrant._

_  
_

o :: o :: o

 

Four beers and John is drunk.  Not knock-down, drag-out, piss-in-the-sink drunk, but he’s getting there.

“You’re great, Sherlock.  Did you know that?”

“Yes.”  He hiccoughs.  “I know.”

“No, though.  I mean _really_.  _Wow_.  You’re just – you’re so bloody fuckin’ smart.”

Sherlock nods sagely into his beer.  “I know,” he says again.

“I did brilliant on all my A-levels and I still don’t know what the hell you’re on about half the time.  _That’s_ how smart you are.”

“John,” Sherlock says, grabbing his shoulder urgently.  He’s just thought of something very important and he has to lean in to tell him.  “John,” he says again, “do you know that you’re shitfaced right now?”

“I don’t even care,” he insists.  “I’m shitfaced but I’m right and you’re smart.”

Sherlock snorts and John rummages for his phone, which is in the skull’s jaw somehow.

“I’m going to tell the Internet how smart you are.”

_Sherlock is so smart.  I don’t know how people can be smart like Sherlock but he is smart he went to Cambridge and fuck all_

_He’s my favorite genius_

“That is so sweet,” Sherlock giggles, hugging John earnestly around the shoulders.  “There are lots of geniuses in the world.  I’m glad that I’m your favorite.  Am I favoriter than Einstein?”

“Fuck Einstein,” John says as he publishes the entry.  “I bet in fifty-some-odd years they’re gonna look back—”

“Who’s going to look back?”

“—fuck, I don’t know.  What’s that smart person society?”

Sherlock squints at him.

“Mensa?”

“ _Yes_.  Fuckers.  I bet in fifty years, Mensa is going to look at Einstein’s Theory of Relativity and they’re going to say, ‘What a stupid wanker!  He was wrong about everything!’”

Sherlock giggles into his beer.  “I had no idea you were so passionate about relativistic physics.”

“Fuck physics.”

“And _fuck_ astronomy!” Sherlock adds.

 

o :: o :: o

 

_SHERLOCK IS MY BESt frend_

_We shold gt plastred eveyr night689_

_I have johns blackberry!_

_Penis_

_  
_

o :: o :: o

 

It’s 4 am now and the telly is on.

“Shaggy is a shit detective,” Sherlock decides.  Sherlock’s head is in John’s lap, but they decided that it was okay and not gay at all for a bloke to have another bloke’s head in his lap while they watch Scooby Doo.

“Who did it?” John asks because he really is shitfaced and he’s not even sure what’s going on.  There was something about a swamp monster and some footprints but John got caught up stroking Sherlock’s hair and missed some important bits.

“It’s the museum curator,” Sherlock drawls.  “It’s _obvious_.  Also, dogs don’t talk.”

“Are you a good detective even when you’re drunk?”

Sherlock considers his answer for a moment.  Then he says, “Yes.  At any rate I’m still probably better than Lestrade.”

John looks toward the kitchen.  “I think we’re out of booze.”

_Dear Internet_

_Please send booze to 221b baker st._

_  
_

o :: o :: o

 

Tweedle-deedle.

Tweedle-deedle.

His head is pounding.  There might be a tiny colony of bacteria living in his brain who have gained sentience and created a sophisticated civilization.  John is sure they’ve just invented the jackhammer.

Tweedle-deedle.

Tweedle-deedle.

It takes an enormous amount of effort to reach his hand out.  His Blackberry is sitting on the nightstand.  It smells a bit like sick.

“348 NEW COMMENTS,” his Blackberry says in text so bright that it mocks his hangover.

He’s gotten lots of comments on his blog before, but that seems high.

 _Posted By: anonymous  
_ _I knew it was only a matter of time…_

 _Posted By: SillyJaner40  
_ _Do we have eyes in central London? Someone should go over there. They’re either dead from alcohol poisoning or in a hilariously compromising position._

 _Posted By: 00roxxinit00  
_ _WE WANT THE TRUTH WATSON! PIX OR IT DIDN’T HAPPEN!_

 _Posted By: not-a-lion  
_ _Agreed, 00roxxinit00. Also send video if possible, and detailed written account. Diagrams are also acceptable._

John realizes, with creeping horror, that he has no idea what they’re talking about.  A very real part of him doesn’t want to scroll up to read the original entry, but the other part of him knows he can’t avoid it.

_Sherlock is in my lap we said it wasn’t gay but I just remembrd HE IS GAY_

_Idk if it makes me gay 2 but he smells great and I don’t care I already killed a psyco wanker for him I can be gay for him 2_

_brb_

_  
_

o :: o :: o

 

She knocks rather urgently on his door.  “Come in,” he says, and without sparing a moment she pushes into his office.  Mycroft is sitting behind his wide oak bureau, tapping away at his computer.

“Sir,” she says as she hands him her phone.  He stops typing, casts her a sidelong look, and then takes her phone.

She watches his face carefully for any sign of reaction as he scrolls.

After a while, he says, “Interesting.”

She purses her lips.  “What are we going to do about it?” she asks him.

“ _Do_ about it?” he echoes.  “They’re both adults.  I’m sure they’ll work it out.”

Clearly, that hadn’t been the answer she was expecting.  “And the admission of murder?”

Mycroft smirks.  “Inadmissible in court, though I doubt it would go that far.”  He passes back her phone.  “Keep me updated, please.”

She nods, slowly, and leaves from whence she came.  Mycroft leans back in his chair.  He supposes he can’t do _nothing_.  This is his baby brother, after all, and unless there has been a severe blind spot in his surveillance of the past twenty years of his life, this would be the first time since Mr. Trevor that he’s had sex, drunken or otherwise.

Mycroft peels a sticky note off the top of the pad and writes:

_To do: Find JW, threaten with death if he harms SH._

He puts it neatly on the side of his monitor so he doesn’t forget.

****


End file.
